


Spikes and Watch Chains a Merry Christmas Make

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017, Punk Greg, Teen Mystrade, prim Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 17:53:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13105464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: Mycroft has to visit the village record shop to find the gifts Sherlock wants for Christmas.  Of course, that puts him squarely in the one place he doesn't want to be, owing to the spike-haired, fantastically-enticing boy working behind the counter, whose name is Greg Lestrade...





	Spikes and Watch Chains a Merry Christmas Make

**Author's Note:**

> A story for the Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017, which has been a rollicking party of Mystrade goodness organized by [egmon73](http://egmon73.tumblr.com/) and [mottlemoth,](http://mottlemoth.tumblr.com/) to whom I doff my cap, since it's been a very special holiday season because of their hard work!

Sherlock did this on purpose.  The evil, fanged, fork-tongued goblin had certainly done this specifically to discombobulate him and vengeance would be swift in coming.  Not that Sherlock had any idea as to why his ‘on purpose’ request was so dastardly, but given Sherlock’s talent for spreading chaos and misery to all those in his path, the principle was certainly sound.

_“You want what for Christmas, brother dear?”_

_“Here, I have prepared a list of the specific recordings that I desire.  You will not deviate from title, orchestra, conductor or performance lest my wrath be mighty and Mummy has specifically prohibited a wrathful Christmas if I hope to gain any presents from Father Christmas, who does not exist, but I choose to continue the farce to gain my due holiday spoils.”_

Whereas it was not entirely unexpected that Sherlock would want classical recordings for Christmas, given his blossoming talent with the violin… it was dashed unfair!  To purchase these, he would have to go… there.

The record shop.

Where… he worked.

Him.

With his… leather, torn shirts, insipid spiked hair and earring.  He wore eyeliner at times, also!  What rot!  Shameless in his attempt to draw attention to his eyes, which were like chocolate.  And muscles, which peeked from the tears in his shirt and bulged beckoningly when he wore shortened sleeves. And he smiled.  Grinned.  Leered, even!  It was scandalous!

Every day he had to walk past the record shop on his way home from school and every day since the start of the term he had to see that leering, spike-haired incubus standing in the doorway of the shop or seducing some defenseless customer into who knew what debauchery in the shop’s storage area.  He had no idea of the level of depravity, but he had given it long and detailed thought and what he imagined was nothing short of sordid!  And tawdry.  Filthy in the most erotically-intoxicating manner.

And there it loomed.  The record shop.  At least the Prince of Darkness was not loitering in the entrance, beguiling the unwary and luring them into his lair.  Though, in this case, it was not necessary as he had to enter voluntarily the aforementioned lair to satisfy Sherlock’s demonic demands.  Christmas was hellish at the best of times and this soared beyond that tepid endorsement.

He was doomed.

__________

      “Well, hello.  And who might you be, sexy?”

The doom had begun!  And it was punishingly wretched because this villainous defiler was looking particularly entrancing today.

      “A customer, so I would appreciate, as would the shop owner I suspect, to be treated with the proper respect.”

There.  The shield of propriety had been lifted and placed between him and the lasciviousness.

      “Oh, a feisty one.  Fair enough.  Prithee, good sir, might I have the honor of your name, so I might swear upon it my adoration and fealty?”

No.  No no no no no.  A masculine trollop was not permitted to use words such as prithee.  Or adoration.

      “Most amusing.  In the spirit of conducting my business quickly and efficiently, I will offer that my name is Mycroft Holmes and that I now expect you to perform your job and find for me the items I require.”

      “Mycroft… oh, I like that.  Feels good on the tongue.”

How dare you, sir!  That… though I cannot condemn the actual context of the words, I… hell and be damned!  You are inflaming my humors and that is completely disallowed!

      “I care not about your tongue, but if you care about my custom, then you will hold yours and properly do your job.”

      “Testy…”

Grinning is also disallowed.  Especially _that_ grin which stirs my humors to an even more stimulating degree.

      “… but let ol’ Greg here see your list and I’ll see what I can do.”

Do not believe for a moment, despoiler, that I failed to notice that you intentionally provided your name, as if you expect me to make some inappropriate comment about how it pleases my tongue, also.  You have no morals, at all, do you?

      “Classical… that fits you, Mycroft.”

That… well, that could not, in fairness, be considered libidinous or impertinent, but the scales remained squarely tipped in that direction, nonetheless.

      “I agree, however, those are gifts for my brother.”

      “Oh, well… very nice of you to get these for your brother.  Very nice, indeed.  He as sexy as you, this brother of yours?”

      “Sherlock is not even ten years old, you paedophile!”

      “Oops!  Silly me, then.  Must be a unique kid to want these, though.  Most want some crap pop tunes, so this is certainly a change.”

Was that… a good change?  Not that he cared, but it was a monstrously rare thing for anyone to say something positive about Sherlock, and he would gladly claim, as Sherlock’s representative, any kind word that might be sent his brother’s direction.

      “Sherlock’s interest in music is most profound and advanced for his age.”

      “Must be… well, good for him.  Glad to see a nipper doing more with his ears than filling them with rubbish.  Follow me, Mycroft.”

We are not on given-name terms, sir.  However… I suppose some laxness of standards can be permitted given I am standing in a den of iniquity where the very concept of standards is nonexistent.  A fact proven by the fact you today have worn the tightest trousers known to man, so your shapely arse is presented in the most sexually-suggestive manner possible.

      “Here we go… we’ve got these alphabetical by composer, so if you want to start with the second half of the alphabet, I’ll take the first half and see what we can find.  I’m going to make a leap of faith and say that if your brother was this specific about things, he won’t accept any substitutes.”

That… was well reasoned.  How dare the fallen angel demonstrate observational skill and basic reasoning!  That was utterly transcending the bounds of his demonic nature!

      “I… yes, you are correct.  Sherlock was most insistent that his requests be honored fully and with no alteration.”

      “Again, good for him.  When you know what you like, you shouldn’t accept less.  And, look here… I already found one.”

Well, that cannot stand unaddressed.  Though it is wholly your responsibility to gather my wants, there is the strong scent of competition in the air and Mycroft Holmes will not find himself vanquished for _any_ competition, no matter how minor nor how despicable the opponent.

      “Given you know your stock and its placement, I would expect you to find titles quickly.  However, I have no doubt I shall not be found emptyhanded by the time the list has been conquered.”

Launching into the display of recordings, Mycroft began flipping through them as fast as he could, first, to gain the lion’s share of necessary titles to win the contest and, second, to help ignore the fact that the classical section was somewhat small and two people manically searching the stock might have cause to bump against one another.  This seemed, especially, to be true if one of those persons, who might be wearing shamefully tight trousers, appeared most insistent on making that particular thing happen.  Though, bumping might have to be amended to rubbing, in certain cases.  The defiler.

__________

      “Drat.”

      “We found five of the recordings you wanted, that’s better than nothing.”

Yes, but you found three and I found two, which is utterly unacceptable, and I am contemplating ending my life from the disgrace.

      “True, but Sherlock will be infuriated if the entirety of his list is not presented on Christmas Day.”

      “A bit of a brat, is he?”

      “You have no idea.”

      “Ok, then… Mr. Gregson who owns the shop said special orders will get here by Christmas if we phone for them by tomorrow.  If you want, I can write slips for the rest of these and let you know when they’re delivered.  You have to pay ahead, but if something doesn’t arrive or is out of stock, you get your money back.”

      “Hmmm… that is not an unworkable idea.  Do you often have undelivered or out of stock items?”

      “No, unless it’s something really rare and these don’t seem to be that old or obscure.  I’m pretty confident we’ll get these for you, Mr. Sexy.”

      “That is tremendously impertinent.”

      “Nah, just speaking truth.  Besides, what’s wrong with being sexy?”

A lot!  No… wait.  No, there was no appreciable amount of wrong with being viewed as visually-pleasing, however… it simply was not something one person said to another when said persons were not well-acquainted.  And… when one of those said persons is certainly simply being cheeky and doesn’t actually mean it.

      “That is not the topic of conversation.”

      “I thought it was, actually.”

No!  You are not permitted to lean closer and leer beckoningly.  As if you are imagining us entwined in the most torrid form of sexual union.  And was it truly necessary to have your tongue peek from your beguiling lips just now?  Was it?  Were they truly dry and parched?  They did not appear that way.  Not in the slightest.  Fiend.

      “The conversation was for the actual purpose of my visit here, which was obtaining the items on this list.  I shall pay for the ones you have now and for the ones you will order.”

      “Let’s talk about you being sexy a bit more, what say?”

A devil was loose in the village!  Though… he had yet to hear any reports of the village being besieged by this satan-spawn and he knew many who visited the record shop on a regular basis.  Though… if they were as scandalized as was he at the beast’s conduct, they might be loath to discuss it in civilized company.

      “To the till, good sir.”

      “Ooh, I like it when you talk formal and proper.”

      “Now.”

      “Oh fine.  I suppose I’ll have another chance to chat you up since you have to come back to get your music.  I’ll see you properly satisfied, Mycroft, don’t worry your sexy head about that one bit.”

V.I.L.L.A.I.N.

      “What part of ‘now’ are you failing to grasp?”

Of course, do run your tongue a final time along your lower lip, simply to fling upon me the greatest measure of your disrepute.  But, at least, it is a prelude to your walking towards the till and… no!  No, do not bend over to pick up that piece of paper!  I applaud your commitment to tidiness, but do you have any idea of the glory of your buttocks?  Yes, you likely do and that is why you are presenting it to me in the most blatant and brazen of fashions.  I shall need a soothing restorative once this ordeal is over.  Fortunately the tea shop boasts only kindly matrons, both as customers and staff, at this time of day so there shall be no presentation of buttocks in tight trousers.

Or, if there are, someone will soon arrive to take the poor dear home for a rest…

__________

For the next week or so, Mycroft took pains not to look into the record shop as he walked home from school, however, his pain was to no avail as his eyes crassly betrayed him every time and were rewarded with glimpses of his personal nemesis doing every sort of devilish action.  If he was pressed to provide full accuracy, he couldn’t exactly claim that stocking the shop, attending to customers, cleaning the windows or making phone calls were devilish acts by their very nature, but the person performing them certainly infused _his_ diabolical nature into each and every one.  The fact that the King of the Incubi waved at him, frequently, made it all the more despicable.

Drained by a particularly come-hither wave and what Mycroft was convinced was a monstrously-filthy wink, he dragged himself into his house, only to be roadblocked by his mother.

      “Oh, there you are, Mycroft.  The record shop phoned and your items have arrived.”

Wonderful.

      “Given they are for Sherlock, cannot I simply send _him_ to collect them?”

      “No and for a legion of reasons, the least of which is that he is doing penance in his room for causing the cat’s hair to fall out from some experiment or other.”

      “We do not have a cat.”

      “We do now, as Mrs. Wharton demanded we take the poor thing and compensate her, monetarily, for her loss.  Fortunately, it is a good-tempered animal and Sherlock is fully 70% certain its hair will regrow.  Your father has a feline fondness, so I am looking upon this as a good thing, though the mice in the cellar may hold a different opinion.”

      “Then Sherlock’s penalty is misapplied, and he may obtain the recordings himself.”

      “No, his conduct is a separate issue.  Besides, though he knows what he is receiving from you, it is always a joy to watch the two of you open your gifts, so retrieve them, wrap them and place them under the tree as per tradition.”

      “Ugh… the agony.”

      “I have no doubt it is searing.  Go.”

Knowing his mother would not be moved on the issue, Mycroft made as dramatic a show as possible of dropping his books onto the floor, then paused a moment.

      “Might I, at least, change out of my school uniform?”

      “As long as it does not become a changing of clothes, then a further thirty distractions and foot-draggings until the shop closes and I must endure this nonsense again tomorrow.”

Dreadful woman.  However, he took that as permission to change into something more suitable for the walk back and throwing himself back into the lion’s den.  However, the phone call did, perhaps, offer an explanation as to why today’s waving had seemed a bit more beckoning than typical.  Regardless, he would be far better equipped to manage the machinations of Beelzebub if he was in something more flattering.  Comfortable!  Of course, he meant comfortable.  How ridiculous of his brain to play silly buggers with him.  Already he was becoming flustered by his impending tribulation and he had yet to set even a single foot into the demon’s summoning circle.  Perhaps he should comb his hair.  Well-combed hair and freshly-brushed teeth were surely potent weapons in the fight against evil…

__________

      “Mycroft!  Don’t you look sexier than usual this afternoon.”

Balderdash.  Spare me your attempts to lure me into your muscular arms and…

      “Good lord!  You have another earring!”

      “Like it!  Decided to give myself a little Christmas gift.  Here, have a better look.”

Mycroft quickly moved to inspect more closely the glittering stud in Greg’s ear, which handily enhanced the small hoop he wore lower in the lobe, and found himself somewhat mesmerized both by the flagrant display of hedonism and his proximity to Greg’s masculine features.

      “Dreadful.  Positively dreadful.”

      “That’s not what your eyes say, sexy.”

      “Pfft.  As if you could discern the meaning of my features.”

      “Oh, I think I can do an amazing job of that, actually.  You _like_ what you see.  And, just maybe, you’re thinking about what else I might have pierced.”

If Mycroft was wearing pearls, they would have been crushed by his clutching them with the force of Hercules.  Or, perhaps, the force of his imagination running wild through the fields of sordidness and not being entirely distressed by what it found.

      “Does your wantonness know no bounds?”

      “Maybe you’ll find out someday.  Soon.”

      “The likelihood of that is naught.”

      “We’ll see.  I have to say I listened to some of the recordings your brother wanted, not yours, but by other orchestras or performers doing the same pieces and, I have to say, he’s got good taste in music.”

Mycroft blinked sharply and wondered if the person in front of him had magically been replaced by someone with sophistication and culture.  The pieces Sherlock had wanted were certainly not well known in the mainstream population.

      “You… you enjoyed them?”

      “Yeah, I did.  Sounds like you didn’t expect me to.”

      “I… well, I would have assumed, given your preferred… costume, that such was not really your area.”

      “Can’t judge books by their cover, Mycroft.  At least, not always.  Or all the way.  Some of the chapters in your head are probably very much the actual me.  Smart, fantastic body…”

      “Oh dear lord…”

      “And I do, normally, listen to other stuff.  I play, too!  Guitar mostly, but I’ll bang on the drums now and again when Jeff is sick or has to work.  Got me a band with my mates and we go off and do a club, or what’s pretending to be a club when the owner’s on holiday, now and again.  Not great ones, since great ones don’t hire young punks like us, but we put a few quid in our pocket or, at least, get a few free pints to our credit and put on a fucking amazing show for the few people who show up.  Mostly people we know, but not always!  Sometimes we see new faces and they seem to like what they hear...”

Of course the ne’er-do-well played guitar.  Certainly without any hint of proper technique or skill.  Another of the irritating throng who traded heavily on their unabashed and roguish sexuality to cover for the fact they had no musical talent whatsoever.

      “… You should come hear us play sometime.”

      “What?  Under no circumstances.”

      “Why not?”

      “I have no doubt your ‘band’ plays that… noise… some seem to believe acts as an acceptable substitute for actual music.  I have no desire to deafen myself in such an unpleasant fashion.”

      “It’s not all noise… gotta listen beneath the surface sometimes and… it’s the energy, you know?”

      “No, I do not.”

      “Energy, life… pure and clear.  Feels like it comes straight from the source.  Like you shoved your hand right into the center of the earth, found its heart and all that force just flows through you.”

That was far more… poetic… than Mycroft had expected.

      “You become part of that, when you’re playing.  Become part of the flow and the energy and… yeah, maybe Mozart would vomit all over his piano hearing us, but… it’s… transformative.  That’s the word.  Ever see anyone transformed like that by what they’re doing?”

Unfortunately, yes.

      “In honesty, I have.  My brother, when he takes up his violin and begins to play.  I see… I see a different person there.  Though, I suspect it is actually the same person, only a part of him that only rises when he is engaged in something that truly touches his soul.”

      “That’s it!  That right there is what I’m talking about.  Your soul gets touched and… it’s fucking brilliant is what it is.  So, sexy… what does that for you?”

      “Pardon?”

      “What touches your soul?  Transforms you?  Gets you hard, lights your fire?”

Must you evince such a… lustful… appearance when you use words like ‘hard?’  Have you no decency?  Any?  A single mote?

      “Nothing.”

      “Nah, try again.”

      “You shall not gain a different answer if I do.”

      “Wrong.  Someone else, maybe, but not you.  I can tell.  You’ve got fire inside, real fire.  What’s it for?”

Greg moved closer to Mycroft as if he was trying to peer through Mycroft’s clear blue eyes and directly into his hidden depths.  Or, at least, that was how Mycroft perceived it.

      “You are quite mistaken.”

      “Come on, Mycroft.  Tell me.  What fills you so full of energy and life that you almost want to cut yourself open and let it spill out onto people who don’t have shit for that and never will.”

Greg’s face was only a whisper away from Mycroft’s and it was all Mycroft could do to stammer out any form on answer.

      “I… I am… academics.  That is a strength of mine.”

      “Still not you.  Some people, yeah, but there’s more.  I can feel it.  I can smell it on your skin.  Passion… the scent of passion that you can’t mistake for anything else.  What is it, sexy?  What’s inside you making you smell so bloody amazing right now?”

Feeling the softness of Greg’s breath on his skin brought a rosy pink to Mycroft’s cheeks, but also an answer.

      “Art.  My art.”

      “Show me.”

Greg snatched a piece of paper and pencil from the counter and set them in front of Mycroft who blinked a moment, then began to sketch a quick scene, where a bridge crossed the small stream to the east of his house.

      “That’s good.  That’s really good.  But…”

      “What?”

      “You’re sketching with your head.“

      “I… I am?”

      “Yeah, you are.  Come on, sexy.  Dig deep.  Find that electricity.”

      “That is… nonsense.”

Greg moved behind Mycroft and leaned in close so his lips were atoms away from Mycroft’s ear.

      “Take you mind somewhere that passion can run wild.  Imagine… Imagine me on my knees, sucking your cock, your hands in my hair begging me to go harder and faster.  I would, too.  Go as hard and fast as you wanted until your cum was flowing down my throat and you were screaming my name until your own throat was raw.”

Mycroft whirled and Greg growled softly at the blazing fire in Mycroft’s eyes.

      “Now… draw.”

Mycroft snarled, whirled back around, flipped the paper, slammed it back down on the counter and began running the pencil across the fresh side with what felt like the wrath of heaven guiding his hand.  After a moment, Greg moved back to the other side of the counter, hopped on the stool, put his feet on the counter, one each on either side of Mycroft’s arms and leaned back against the shelves behind him, keeping an eye on the door for any other customers that might wander in and spoil the mood.

After awhile, Mycroft huffed a breath, threw the pencil at Greg and ran a hand across his brow, surprised to find it damp with sweat.  Then, with the grip of what had ever held him broken, he looked at what he’d drawn, and so did Greg.

      “Fuck me, Mycroft… that’s amazing.  That’s… yeah, that’s art.  That’s passion.  That’s your fire.”

Greg ran a finger along Mycroft’s hand, but Mycroft scarcely felt it.  He… he had never drawn like that before.  And he didn’t draw portraits.  Ever.  But, he had.  A portrait of his personal demon and it… was stunning.  Even he had to admit he had captured every bit of the villain’s vitality, swarthy sensuality, impishness and… _passion_ on the paper.

      “I’ve never seen someone do that, Mycroft.  Draw with that confidence, that sheer fucking force of talent… like watching one of those Old Masters of something.  I’m awestruck, I really am.”

So, in truth, was the artist himself.  However, to get to that point… what had been said… how… how DARE Gregory toy with him like that!  How dare he play with him, humiliate him… Gregory’s laudatory words were surely hiding his laughter at how easily this stupid boy had been… led by the nose.  Played for a fool…

Feeling a rush of shame flood his veins, Mycroft grabbed his purchases and began to run for the door, tugging sharply when a hand wrapped around his arm.

      “Hey!  What’s wrong?”

      “You!  You are wrong!”

      “What… why?  What’d I do?”

How magnificent an actor you are, Gregory.  I would almost believe the confusion in your eyes if I did not know better.

      “I am not your toy!  I am not... I am not a stupid, silly doll for you to play with.  I have no time for your nonsense and I regret, profoundly, every moment I wasted until I discovered your game.”

Tugging hard this time to pull away his arm, Mycroft dashed out of the shop and ran along the street towards his home.  It would be inconvenient, but he could walk another way to and from school and never, ever, have to see that horrid Gregory again.  How stupid he had been!  How utterly brainless and stupid and… never.  Never again would he even begin to… no.  He had _not_ begun to hope.  That would have been silly and he was not silly.  He wasn’t.  And he never would be.  Not once in this long, accursed life.

__________

The next few days were good ones.  Very good ones.  School was on Christmas break and he had nothing to do but read, ignore Sherlock and enjoy an abundance of peace and quiet.  All of that was readily available in his room, too.  Not one journey into the village was necessary to savor any of his favorite things, so this was shaping up to be a truly marvelous Christmas.

      “Mycroft, dear, you’ve got something in the post.”

That was a phrase Mycroft was somewhat certain had never been uttered in their home.

      “What is it, Mummy?”

      “If you peeked your head out of your hole, Mr. Mole, you might learn that for yourself.”

Ugh… why couldn’t one spring into being without the need for a parent?

      “Coming, Mummy.”

Mycroft set down his book and did his best to appear cool and collected as he walked down the stairs though, in truth, he was more than slightly unsettled.  Something for him?  Grandmama brought her Christmas packages with her and she would not arrive until Christmas Day for her traditional invasion of their peaceful home, so the number of options remaining for the sender of an item of post was… nil.

      “Oh, there you are, Mycroft.  Here.”

Mycroft scrutinized the envelope that was thrust towards him and it took a few shakes of it before he reached out to take it from his mother’s hand.

      “It’s not a snake you know; it won’t bite you.”

That was not something Mycroft was prepared, in the slightest, to believe after he saw the sender’s name.

      “Well, aren’t you going to open it?”

No.  Or… maybe.  Not here.  Definitely not here.

      “Later.  It is of little importance.”

      “Then why are you nearly crushing it into wood pulp?”

Oh.  Well, that _was_ somewhat of an indictment, now wasn’t it?  Must implement deflection measures.

      “A hand spasm.”

      “Look at you, doing your best to be inscrutable.  Getting better at it by the day.  Your father will be so proud.  Now, off with your ‘little importance’ letter and maybe later you can tell me who is this ‘Greg Lestrade.’ “

Damnation!  Mummy had seen the name.  Nosy woman.  She had no cause to know his private, personal business.  If this is what that was.  He doubted most seriously that the disgraceful fiend could read, let alone write, so this was likely some pathetic crayon drawings and a large ‘X’ to stand as his signature.

Once out of his mother’s sight, Mycroft scurried back up to his bedroom and made certain to lock the door behind him.  Sitting on his bed, he set the letter down next to him and stared at it as if he was waiting for some practical joke to leap out and further prove Greg was a deplorable human being.  When that failed to occur, Mycroft carefully lifted it up again and slid a finger under the flap to begin opening it.  Then stopped.  The started again.  And stopped a second time.

It was only the reminder that behaving in this manner only played into Greg’s victory of a few days’ past, and that he would rather swallow molten lava than allow that to happen that prompted Mycroft to give  a final flick of his finger to open the envelope and yank out the letter to put whatever this trick was to rest.

_Mycroft,_

_I don’t know how to say how sorry I am, so all I can say is I’m Sorry.  I didn’t mean to upset you and I certainly wasn’t trying to play with you or use you like a toy, but I can see, now, why you’d think that and I’m very, very sorry for it.  Honestly, I was just trying to help, but I made an arse of myself instead and hurt you, too, which I’m been beating myself bloody for since you left that day.  I’d hoped to see you in the village to say this in person, but never did and I don’t want to go any longer without you knowing that I know I was an idiot and I’m sorry for what I did.  I’d still really like to tell you this in person, though.  It’s only fair to you that I say it to your face.  I know tomorrow is Christmas Eve, but if you can come, and if you want to, the shop closes at three and I’d like it if you stopped in so I can do that.  If you can’t, you can stop in another day.  If you don’t want to at all, I understand and won’t bother you if I see you again.  If I don’t see you tomorrow, have a happy Christmas and know that I never meant to hurt you._

_Greg_

That was… unexpected.  Highly unexpected.  Gregory was… remorseful.  And there was not, that he could discern, a whiff of insincerity in his words.  But, could he trust them?  It was so difficult to know.  In truth he had little on which to base a judgement.  Only his instincts.

But could he trust _them_?  He… he became so muddled around Gregory!  It was utterly nonsensical, but… that did not change the facts or diminish the muddling.  He _had_ been hurt, though.  But… how much of that hurt was from his own perceptions, compared to Gregory’s intentions?  And, did that matter?  More importantly, did he care?

No, he knew the answer to that questions and it prompted another.  _Why_ did he care?  Once again, Gregory was befuddling him and, unfortunately, he knew there was only one way to lay the matter to rest.  But… what if it simply led to more distress?  Why couldn’t life be simple?  It didn’t seem a lot to ask, especially at Christmas…

__________

The rest of the day, the entirety of the night and the morning through afternoon of the next day found Mycroft’s mind distracted by Greg’s letter and the decision he had to make, which in one moment found him berating himself for being silly and cowardly and, the next, for caring in the slightest about such a trivial event and person such as the incubus.  However, the time had come, the walrus said, to make up his bloody mind.

      “Mummy, shall Father be home early today?”

      “Hmmm?  No, he said to expect him on the usual train and I’ve planned dinner accordingly.  Anxious for Christmas Eve, Mycroft?”

No, I had hoped you would provide a concrete obstacle to today’s potential plans, so the decision would be lifted fully from my hands.

      “Simply curious.  Sherlock will be gnawing the various bows and ribbon, as typical, and if I need to bind and gag him so he does not rip through all the wrapped gifts tonight, then I need to begin laying in supplies.”

      “I made certain to put a few oddly-shaped and strangely -wrapped small things at the periphery of the gifts so he’ll be distracted by those first and give us plenty of time to grab him and lock him in the attic with the spiders before he gets to his real gifts.”

The tiny gasp at the very edge of Mycroft’s hearing indicated his brother had gotten the message loudly and clearly and would think twice about attempting one of his ridiculous nobody-seems-to-be-watching raids on the gifts.  Their attic was notorious for being a spider resort hotel…

      “Smartly played.  Then…”

Should he?  Now was the hour of his discontent made glorious by nothing of his own thoughts or deeds so, perhaps, the die was cast whether he liked it or not.

      “… I shall be going into the village for awhile.”

      “Oh.  Do you have further shopping to do?”

      “No, I… I simply fancy a stroll.”

      “You generally do not stroll in the village.”

      “Are you now the strolling constable?”

      “Might this have something to do with the letter you received that was posted _in_ the village?”

      “You are, also, not the correspondence constable.”

      “Of course not.  Do enjoy yourself, Mycroft.”

Smirking should be made illegal when said smirk was being performed by one’s mother.  When he had some say in how this infernal country was run, he would make that his very first act of authority.  However, that would have to wait for now, since he had to change into something more appropriate for strolling.  He had a new blue jumper he had yet to wear that would be most toasty for a brisk walk.  Mummy said it would look lovely with his eyes, but that was an inane detail that only a mother would find important…

__________

Mycroft pulled his grandfather’s pocket watch from his coat for the tenth time and frowned that time had not obligingly stood still to provide a final mental respite to reconsider his choice.  As it was, he was a full six minutes late and that was enough to send his mind into an anxious state which, combined with the reason for _being_ in the village today, was doing nothing to bolster the confident, nonchalant persona he had hoped to sport for this meeting.  However, onward and upward…

Doing everything possible not to present even a hint of nervousness, Mycroft walked the final steps towards the record shop which now boasted a ‘Closed for Christmas’ sign on the door.  Harboring one final hope that the, now, seven minutes tardiness had caused the hellbeast to return to its dark, sulfur-perfumed lair, Mycroft softly knocked and was rewarded with what sounded like a hellbeast charging from its malodorous lair to sink its talons into its next victim.

      “Mycroft!  Oh, thank you.  I… I was worried you wouldn’t come.”

Something Mycroft was now thinking might have been a very good idea since… why did this defiler have to appear so breathtaking!  He had forsaken his tight trousers and rag of a shirt for… a handsome set of charcoal trousers with a white turtleneck pullover and charcoal jacket. With his still-spiked hair, earrings and a touch of eyeliner to make his eyes truly something to behold… it wasn’t fair!

      “It would have been poor manners to refuse.”

      “I would have understood, though.  Come in!  Today’s a cold one and we had hot chocolate for the last-second shoppers.  I… I made certain to save some for you.  If you want it, that is.”

Though he was on extremely-high, red alert for any sign of a trap, Mycroft was finding quite the opposite.  Unless, hot chocolate was somehow sexually-provocative and he was simply unaware of that particular fact.  It was difficult to see how, though…

      “I… yes, that would be most agreeable.”

      “Great!  I’ll even roll out Mr. Gregson’s doing-the-accounts chair for you to sit in.”

Before Mycroft could find this latest boon agreeable or not, Greg was sprinting towards the back of the shop, returning once with the promised chair and a second time with the also-promised hot chocolate.

      “Let me know if it’s too hot or you don’t like it or something.”

This particular version of the sex demon was not one that Mycroft recognized, but it was doing a better job that it’s normal version would have managed for lowering the crisis level of his nerves.  A sip of his drink lowered them even further.

      “It is most delicious, thank you.”

      “You’re welcome!  And, you really look nice today, Mycroft.”

Again, simply ‘Mycroft.’  Not a ‘sexy’ to be heard.  Whereas that was right and proper, it… frankly, it was a touch deflating, on one hand, but the other hand recognized that this could be an actual effort to make amends.

      “Thank you.  I… I would return the compliment.  I do not believe I have ever seen you wear such an ensemble.”

      “Like it!  I had to do a lot of courtesy deliveries this morning, mostly to old people who have a harder time getting here to pick up what they’ve bought, and they feel more comfortable when a smartly-dressed lad knocks on their door than when a rough punk is banging on the wood.  Besides… well, I thought you might appreciate seeing I can look like something other than… what you’re used to seeing.”

The expression on Greg’s face was the most open and honest Mycroft had seen on his adversary, delivering the final nail in the coffin of his theory that this was another round in some cruel game.

      “It is, I suspect, a feature of us all that we present ourselves differently based on the situation.”

      “Yeah, that’s true.  But…”

Greg set down his own cup of hot chocolate and drew the stool from behind the counter to sit on, motioning for Mycroft to take the comfortable chair.

      “… it was important today.  At least, that’s what I thought.  I really do want to apologize to you, Mycroft.  I… I thought I was helping that day, but I see, now, that it just made you uncomfortable and think I was being a prick who _wanted_ to make you uncomfortable.  That wasn’t what I was thinking, not at all, but it doesn’t change that you were hurt and I’m very, very sorry that I did that to you.  Especially…”

This new look was one that Mycroft couldn’t easily interpret, thought he did his very best to try.

      “Yes?”

      “Especially since I’d been hoping you’d actually come in here one day, so I’d have the chance to talk to you.”

      “P… pardon?”

Greg ran a hand through his hair, which tamed his spikes a little and left a few to flop down over his forehead.

      “I noticed you walking by not long after I started working here and… I thought you looked… I thought that if had the chance, I’d like to chat you up.  Get to know you better.”

Mycroft was very, very glad he was in a chair, because if he was perched on the stool, he would have already fallen off of it.

      “M… Me?”

      “Yeah.  I didn’t know if you’d spare a word for a scruffy punk like me, but I hoped you might.  But, you never seemed to notice when I tried to catch your eye.  When you finally came in that day… I got so nervous, I turned into a stupid prat trying to be cool and interesting and mucked it all up.  If you hadn’t had to come back for your order, I don’t think I’d have seen you again, and I told myself not to be such an idiot when I saw you.  Then I fucked up a second time!  I’m my own worst enemy!  All I wanted to do was talk to you, get to know you and I turned it into a mess that I’ve been kicking myself over since I chased you off.  I still have your drawing, though.  My mum said it was accomplished and intriguing and other words only she knows because she read art history in college, but they all meant you’re brilliantly-talented and… and I’m babbling like an idiot and I’m sorry about that, too.”

Which was another thing Mycroft was very, very glad for since it gave his brain a chance to reboot like his father’s computer when it was having a bit of a fight with reality.  Gregory… had noticed him?  Him.  Mycroft Holmes.  This person seated in his particular chair.

      “So, I know you may want nothing to do with me now, and that’s fair, but, I’d still like to get to know you, if that’s possible.  I… I really like what I’ve learned so far and I’d like to learn more about you and the things you like and stuff like that.”

      “Oh…I… I must admit… none of this is what I expected.”

      “No, I suppose not, given the impression I made. I do dress like that a lot of the time, but not always.  And, I do play in my band, but… hold on.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes as Greg hopped off the stool and returned to the stockroom, this time returning with an acoustic guitar.

      “It’s not the only stuff I play.”

Hopping back on his stool and after a steadying breath, Greg began playing what Mycroft recognized as a familiar Christmas carol, though gently embellished with a variety of tasteful and melodic sections that highlighted Greg’s skill with the instrument.

      “That is… I admit that I am somewhat surprised by your mastery of a more traditional style of music.”

      “I love it, actually.  Gives me a different feeling, comes from a different place inside but it’s a place just as important as the one that has me beating my poor old electric model like I was trying pound a nail into some wood.”

Sitting quietly a moment and listening to the music, Mycroft let his mind replay the last few minutes and how they deviated wildly from his anticipated visit.  Then he replayed _certain_ segments a second and third time because… well, they were segments that set the stage for something more than simply accepting Gregory’s apology.  He just had to… make sense of it.  Or, maybe, that was what would keep him from setting foot on that particular stage, at all.  If there was a prize for being an overly-analytical ditherer when it came to… personal business… he would certainly win with the next contestant placing a far, far distant second.  He had an incisive, _de_ cisive mind for all things outside his personal life but this was, apparently, a rather crippling Achilles heel and his socks were insufficiently thick to ward off oncoming arrows.

      “You truly have a lovely command of your music, Gregory.  It is… a joyful thing to hear.”

Greg’s smile, having not a whit of a leer or whiff of smugness was the most beautiful thing Mycroft had ever seen.

      “Thanks.  If I didn’t want to be a copper, this is what I’d do to earn a wage.”

      “Oh, law enforcement.  Do they…”

      “Let scruffs like me serve?  I don’t know, but I’ve got a couple of years before I want to find out.  Spend some time getting to know _myself_ better before I make a final decision.  I _do_ want to live in London, though.  That much I know for certain.  It feels right for me.”

Which meant that, given his own plans to relocate to London in a few years time, Mycroft could potentially carry on something that might develop if he could ever put his dithering behind him.  Surely Mummy had some socks wrapped for him under the tree… perhaps he could wear two pairs at a time and protect that wretched Achilles heel…

      “I, too, hope to live in London.  Once I have completed my degree.”

      “Well, then… looks like I’ll know someone.  That is… if you _want_ to know me.”

Ah yes… that particular issue officially had not been settled.

      “I… I accept your apology, Gregory.  And, I would appreciate the opportunity to better come to know you.”

That was as stilted and dry as his grandmother’s martini, however, it did seem to be acceptable if the glow in Gregory’s eyes was to be believed.

      “Really?  Oh, thank you, Mycroft.  Really, that’s the most brilliant thing in the world.  Ummm… do you have to be home at a certain time?”

That was interesting… could… could that imply a lingering?  Together?  Right… no dithering or second-guessing or having his head firmly ensconced up his colon, for any of that might nullify his chances of… lingering.  Which sounded very pleasant at the moment, to be honest.

      “I do have to be home for our standard Christmas Eve dinner, but that is not an early thing.”

      “Then… would you like to come to the pub with me?  We can sit and chat, maybe have a pint or two…”

      “I am not of legal drinking age.”

      “I’m not either, that’s what having grandparents who own a pub is good for.”

      “Oh… well, in that case… do they have wine?”

      “I’ll make certain you get the good stuff they keep behind the bar for special customers.”

      “Then… I accept your kind offer.”

Mycroft was wrong… _this_ smile of Greg’s was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.  It was so happy and filled with hope and glee that Mycroft couldn’t stop a similar one breaking out on his own lips.

      “Alright then.  That sounds perfect!  Ummm… you want to go now or…”

      “If you like.  I suspect you would prefer something other than a stool on which to sit.”

      “Yeah, this thing is murder on my arse and my arse can take a _lot_ before it’s actually murdered, plump as it is.  Here, let me put away your cup and chair, and I’ll start closing up shop.”

Gregory’s arse was not plump.  It was firm.  Succulent.  Hands-beckoning.  And it would soon be warming a seat in a cozy pub where it’s owner would be sharing time with someone who greatly admired said arse and… was starting to admire its owner, as well.  An honest apology was difficult, but Gregory had given a highly-appropriate one and… was a more complex and layered person than the sex god he had imagined.  In truth he did, now, hope to learn more about this person and not simply in a lustful fashion, which was a Christmas surprise unique in his experience.  And, he was starting to realize, unique was something he was coming greatly to value.

      “Alright, lights off in the rear, doors locked… the shop is put to bed for the holiday.  Shall we?”

      “We shall.  And, thank you, Gregory.  I very much appreciate this opportunity to extend our conversation.”

      “I’m looking forward to it, too.  Though…”

      “Yes?”

      “Look up.”

Mycroft’s eyes tilted skyward and noticed the small sprig of mistletoe hung above his head.

      “Oh dear.”

      “Ummm… can I?”

Fortunately, the ‘can you what?’ died on Mycroft’s lips before he embarrassed himself utterly.

      “I…”

COURAGE!

      “I suppose one _should_ honor tradition.”

There was now the tiniest cub of wolfishness in Greg’s smile and it made Mycroft’s heart skip a beat even before the softest of kisses was laid on his cheek.

      “Don’t want to be too fresh on our first date.”

Date.  And kiss.  Date _and_ kiss.  This was the most spectacular Christmas in the history of creation!

      “That would certainly not be warranted…”

MORE COURAGE!  COURAGE THE LIKES OF WHICH HAS NOT BEEN SEEN SINCE THE DAWN OF TIME!

      “… such should be reserved for the _third_ date, at the very least.”

Was that too much courage?  How did one know for situations like this!

      “Third date, is it?  That sounds… like a goal.  I _like_ goals.  Like them a lot, actually.”

Precisely the right amount of courage!  What one could accomplish when one put a boot in the face of dithering was incalculable!

      “Then, I have no doubt that shall be a fertile conversation topic while we chat and enjoy our drinks.”

      “Oh, I think you’re right.  Let’s go, Mycroft.  Christmas Eve awaits.”

Stepping out of the shop and pantomiming taking off a large hat and bowing as Mycroft walked out after him, Greg paid a quick ‘thank you’ to his lucky stars for today.  He’d dithered like a berk about sending Mycroft the letter, but he had to do something to get the chance to apologize.  And, just maybe, the chance to see Mycroft again.  He knew that Father Christmas didn’t exist, but it felt like he’d just been given the largest gift Father Christmas ever left under anyone’s tree in the history of time.  And it was a gift that would keep on giving.  Three dates already on his schedule and he’d make certain they _actually_ happened by just being himself and not Greg the Dumb Punk who nearly fucked his chances of this ever happening to begin with.

Of course, Greg the _Smart_ Punk seemed to be someone Mycroft liked, so the real him was in for some amazing things, he suspected.  Mycroft was amazing, so it only stood to reason, didn’t it?  No… no overthinking this and getting himself into another mess.  Just relax, be himself and have a nice time with the gorgeous bloke walking at his side.  Enjoy his little bit of Christmas magic and show Mycroft that his trust and forgiveness were rightly bestowed on this dithering dimwit.  Not that he was a dithering dimwit any longer!  Mycroft was a level-headed, clear-thinking person and he’d certainly appreciate a bit of the same in the person he was dating…


End file.
